by John M. Ford
Suddenly, the inner gate was naked before him. Lowering his shoulder, he slammed into it with all his strength. It didn’t budge. And the siege engine wasn’t narrow enough to make it into the courtyard.
But there was more than one way to skin a serpent. Raising his bat’leth as high as he could, he sent up a cry for help. And before he knew it, a dozen rebels had appeared to add their strength to his.
Morath, of course, was the first to lean into the gate with his friend. Digging in with their heels, the others did the same. Then they pushed as hard as they could, grunting with the effort.
At first, there was no more progress than when Kahless had tried it himself. But a few seconds later, the outlaw heard the shriek of bending iron.
“Harder!” he roared. “We are almost in!”
They drew deeper, finding strength they did not know they had, and used all of it against the gate. There was another shriek of twisting metal, and all of a sudden the thing surrendered to them.
Flinging the gate wide, Kahless took in the sight of Molor’s torch-lit anteroom. It was full of tall, powerful warriors, who grinned at him with eyes full of venom and mouths full of sharpened teeth.
The tyrant’s personal guard, two dozen strong. The most devastating fighters the world had ever known. Or so it was said.
Kahless tightened his grip on his bat’leth. One way or the other, he repeated to himself, remembering the words he had spoken at Tolar’tu. One way or the other.
Then, as a handful of his men clustered about him, he raised his weapon high and charged into the midst of the enemy.
Thirty-three: The Modern Age
The house was an impressive one, broad and angular as it bulked up against the faintly pink underbelly of the sky. It dwarfed the other buildings in this wealthy and less-traveled part of Navrath.
Still, Lomakh was no longer quite so awed by it as he had once been. After all, he had visited the place several times in the last year, on the occasion of one splendid feast or another. Its owner—a wealthy and prominent member of the high council—was quite fond of extravagant celebrations.
And not just feasts. He liked to sponsor local festivals and opera performances as well. But he most enjoyed inviting people to his home.
During one such revelry, the council member had shown Lomakh his family armory—and invited the Defense Force officer to join a young but burgeoning conspiracy. Of course, the wealthy one had done his research. He knew Lomakh was disaffected with Gowron’s reign and bold enough to do something about it.
Lomakh had hesitated—but only for a second or two. Then he had pledged himself to their common cause.
He was still pledged to it now, heart and hand. And though some small matters had not gone as smoothly as he would have liked, larger matters had more than made up for them.
In the end, the conspirators’ victory seemed assured. The Empire was still reeling over the confirmation of the scroll’s authenticity, the clone and his comrades had been destroyed in the explosions on Ogat, and Gowron was too stupid to believe in the threat right before his eyes.
By the time he gave the rumors of conspiracy any credence, it would be too late for the council leader and all his supporters. Gowron would be gone, and another raised in his place. And the alliance with the Federation would be a grim and distasteful memory.
Most important of all, Lomakh would be a man held in the highest esteem by Gowron’s successor. Such a man could have most anything his heart desired—power, latinum, vengeance against old enemies.
Yes, the officer mused. Things were going very well indeed.
Such were Lomakh’s thoughts as he approached the house’s sturdy, qava-wood gates and the sensor rods on either side of them. Pulling the cowl of his cloak aside for a moment, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one had followed him through the streets. Apparently, no one had.
Satisfied, he moved forward to stand between the sensor rods and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. In a matter of moments, the house guards had emerged from between the gates—a quartet of them, each one bigger and more hostile-looking than the one before him.
Familiar with their routine, Lomakh opened his cloak to show them the extent of his armaments. Removing his disruptor from his belt, he turned it over to the biggest of them. He kept his d’k tahg, however. It would have been a breach of propriety to strip a Klingon of all his weapons.
Satisfied, the guards escorted him through the gates and into the courtyard. On the far side of it, there was another set of gates, a bit smaller but otherwise identical to the first. There were sensor rods there too, in case the first set malfunctioned.
Lomakh passed between them without incident. As two of the guards opened the gates, he entered a pentagon-shaped anteroom. Just past it was the stronghold’s central hall.
It wasn’t quite as big as the High Council chamber and its ceiling certainly wasn’t as high, but it was just as majestic and well appointed. And the high seat at its far end was, if anything, even larger and more formidable than Gowron’s.
The one who occupied that seat was formidable too, the hairlessness of his large head accentuating the darkness of his brows. Right now, his face illuminated by the flames from freestanding braziers placed at intervals, the council member looked as hard and unyielding as stone.
At first, Lomakh believed his host was the only one who awaited him. Then, as he came closer, he realized there were other figures there.
Four of them, to be exact, all but obscured by the shadows outside the circle of torchlight. What’s more, Lomakh recognized them.
Tichar. Goradh. Olmai. Kardem.
All high-ranking officers in the Klingon Defense Force. All, like Lomakh himself, key participants in the conspiracy. They turned at his approach, their eyes narrowing beneath the ridges of their foreheads.
What is going on? they seemed to ask. Lomakh wanted to know himself. He looked to their host for an answer.
Unarrh, son of Unagroth, looked back at him from his high seat. He leaned forward, so that the lines in his squarish face were accentuated and his eye sockets were swallowed in shadow. Only his irises were visible as pinpricks of reflected firelight.
“Lomakh,” Unarrh rumbled. “Finally. Now tell me quickly, before my patience runs out—why did you call us here?”
“Yes,” added Olmai, “tell us. I thought we had agreed not to meet in large numbers until the rebellion was well under way.”
“I thought the same,” spat Goradh.
“And I as well,” added Tichar.
Lomakh shook his head. Clearly, he had missed something. Or someone had.
“I did not call anyone,” he protested.
“What?” The council member’s brows converged over the bridge of his nose. “Then why are you here?” he asked.
Lomakh indicated one of the other conspirators with a tilt of his head. “I received a message from Kardem, summoning me. Though I must admit, it seemed strange to me at the time.”
Unarrh’s eyes narrowed. He looked from one of his fellow conspirators to another. “Someone is lying,” he said.
The Defense Force officers glanced at one another, hoping someone would step forward and tender an explanation. No one did.
The council member’s eyes opened wide. He cursed lavishly beneath his breath. “This must be some kind of trap,” Unarrh decided. “The best thing for us to do is—”
He was interrupted by a commotion in the corridor outside. A moment later, one of Unarrh’s house guards came hurtling into the hall. Then another. Both sprawled on the floor, unconscious, bleeding from the head and face.
The other guards, Lomakh observed, were nowhere to be seen. He could only conclude they had been neutralized as well.
Immediately, his hand went to his belt, where it expected to find his disruptor pistol. But of course, it was no longer there, so he had to settle for the ceremonial knife concealed in the back of his tunic.
Unarrh shot to his feet like a rearing s�
�tarahk. “What is the meaning of this?” he roared.
An instant later, the intruders entered the hall. First, a group of three, one of whom seemed vaguely familiar even in darkness. Then another group, cloaked and cowled like the conspirators themselves.
“Who are you?” Unarrh demanded. “By what right do you impose yourselves on my house?”
By way of an answer, a member of the first group stepped forward into the light from the braziers. Instantly, his features became recognizable. They were, after all, those of the honorable Gowron—son of M’rel and leader of the Klingon High Council.
Unarrh’s eyes took on an even harder cast. His voice was taut, commanding, as he addressed the council leader.
“I trust there is some meaning in this somewhere, Gowron. Because if there is not, you will regret barging in on me like this.”
The council leader scowled. “I assure you, Unarrh, I did not come here simply to annoy you.” He jerked his chin at the four who still stood in the darkness, their faces concealed by their hoods. “It was they who persuaded me. They claimed they had something to tell me—but would not reveal it except in your presence.”
Unarrh turned his gaze on the quartet. “And who are they?” he rasped.
All four of them pulled back their cowls. Then they joined Gowron in the circle of illumination.
Lomakh’s mouth went dry as he saw who had come calling on him. “Kahless…” he gasped.
The clone grinned fiercely. “Yes, Kahless, back from the dead. I seem to specialize in that, don’t I?”
Lomakh looked at the others, their faces revealed now as well. His mouth twisted with hatred and frustration.
The sons of Mogh, Worf and Kurn. And the human, the damned Arbiter of Succession—Picard of the Federation.
All alive. And from the look of things, undeterred in their pursuit of the conspirators. Lomakh grunted softly, wondering what would come next and how to play it.
“What interesting companions you have,” Unarrh commented, glaring at Gowron and choosing to ignore the others.
Kahless chuckled, indicating the Defense Force officers with a sweep of his arm. “I might say the same of you,” he countered.
Unarrh’s lips curled back, exposing his teeth. With obvious reluctance, he turned his gaze on the clone.
“I will not tolerate your presence here much longer,” he snarled. “If you have something to say, say it.”
Lomakh grunted. Unarrh must have known their conspiracy had been discovered. He was simply playing for time, trying to find out how much Kahless knew before making his move.
Or did the council member truly believe he could talk his way out of this? Lomakh tightened his grip on the dagger in his tunic—aware of the possibility that Unarrh’s plans for saving himself might not include the preservation of his allies.
In the meantime, the clone had been digging in his belt pouch for something. He extracted it now and held it up to the light.
It was a computer chip—the kind used here on the homeworld, and therefore compatible with systems of Klingon manufacture. Lomakh tried to anticipate how it might incriminate them—and couldn’t.
But he didn’t have to wait long to find out.
“This chip,” Kahless hissed, “contains information downloaded from a Klingon subspace relay station—one my comrades and I had occasion to visit recently.” He smiled at Worf, who stood beside him.
“On the main communications band,” the clone continued, “there is nothing more than the usual subspace chatter. But on a frequency normally left unused by the Defense Force, there is something more….”
Lomakh knew what that something was, even before Kahless finished his thought. After all, he had taken part in it—in the early stages of the conspiracy, before Unarrh decided to clamp down on security.
“…a record of several conversations,” Kahless went on, “in which certain Defense Force officers repeatedly conspire to tear down the honorable Gowron. And the name Unarrh always seems to figure prominently in these discussions.” The clone scanned the officers assembled, clearly enjoying himself. “It occurs to me all of those who took part in this conspiracy are now present in this hall.” His smile broadened as he turned to Gowron. “A great convenience, if you ask me.”
The council leader didn’t say anything. But Lomakh wasn’t blind. He could see Gowron’s interest in the chip.
Worf took another step toward Unarrh and lifted his arm to point at the council member. “All along, you have claimed to be a supporter of Kahless and his orthodoxy. Yet you were nothing of the kind.”
The hall rang and echoed with his accusation. Unarrh’s eyes grew wide, but he said nothing in his defense.
“In truth,” Kurn added, “you were the guiding force behind the rebellion all along—even before the scroll was made public.”
Kahless handed the computer chip to Gowron. The council leader hefted the thing in his hand, then turned again to Unarrh.
“Bring me a playback device,” he told his host.
“Unless you fear what is on it,” Worf suggested, relentless in his pursuit of the truth.
Unarrh laughed an ugly laugh. “I fear nothing and no one.” As he glowered at Worf, his eyes seem to burn in the firelight. “Especially a p’tahk who was discommendated for his family’s treachery.”
Worf was incensed. “Duras was the p’tahk, not I. And who are you to speak of treachery?” he thundered. “You, who would have torn the council apart without a second thought—though it was Gowron who raised you to your office in the first place?”
Unarrh turned a dark and dangerous shade of red. Reaching behind him, he produced a disruptor pistol—one even Lomakh hadn’t known about. Apparently, the council member had anticipated some sort of trouble.
Before anyone could move, Unarrh took aim at one of Gowron’s guards and pressed the trigger. A blue beam shot out and consumed the warrior in a swirl of rampant energies. Then the council member aimed and fired again, and Gowron’s other retainer died in agony.
Lomakh had seen enough. Unarrh seemed to have decided he had run out of options—and was taking his best shot at survival.
Unfortunately, even if he destroyed all his enemies, he would have to explain his actions to the council. And they would not look kindly on his killing Gowron and Kurn—apparently without provocation.
More than likely, Unarrh would have to throw them a bone—a Defense Force officer or two, to punish as they saw fit. And Lomakh had no desire to be sacrificed in such a manner.
Let Unarrh fend for himself, he thought. I will be elsewhere, making new allies, before he can point a finger at me.
With a hiss of metal on molded leather, he drew his dagger and made a break for it. Nor were his fellow officers far behind.
Thirty-four: The Heroic Age
In Molor’s anteroom, Kahless swung his bat’leth and struck down one of Molor’s guards. Beside him, Morath disemboweled another.
For a time, the tyrant’s retainers had held their own, even against greater odds. Perhaps twenty of the rebels lay stacked about them, blood running from twice as many wounds.
But now there were only a dozen defenders left, and none of them were grinning as eagerly as before. A couple barely had the strength to stay on their feet. Slowly but surely, the tide was turning against them.
“They’re faltering!” Kahless cried. “It won’t be much longer now!”
Still, every second they delayed him was like the sting of a pherza wasp. He wanted desperately to reach their master and see an end to this.
Blinking sweat from his eyes, Kahless hacked at another of Molor’s warriors. The man stumbled backward, barely managing to deflect the blow in time. In another moment, he would come back with one of his own.
But in the meantime, the outlaw had a clear path to his goal—a long, straight hallway that led deeper into the bowels of the citadel. With a burst of speed, he seized the opportunity.
And Morath was right behind him. As always.
“Kahless!” he cried.
The outlaw turned, barely breaking stride. “What is it?”
“We should go back and finish them,” Morath protested.
“No,” said Kahless, firm in his resolve. “If you want to end this, I’ll show you a quicker way.”
Morath hesitated. But in the end, he came running after his friend. “All right,” he said for emphasis. “Show me.”
The outlaw pledged inwardly to do his best. Pelting down the long, echoing hallway, he tried to remember the layout of the place. After all, he had only been here a couple of times, and both seemed impossibly long ago.
At the end of the hallway, there was a choice of turnings. The corridor to Kahless’s left was decorated with heroic tapestries and ancient weapons. The one to his right held a series of black-iron pedestals, each one host to something dark and hairy.
A head, the outlaw recalled. A stuffed head.
Turning to the right, he broke into a run again. As before, Morath followed on his heels.
“What are these?” his friend asked, referring to the heads.
“The tyrant’s enemies,” Kahless told him. “Though from what I’ve heard, they plague him no longer.”
Unexpectedly, he drew courage from the sight. It was as if every shriveled, staring face was shouting encouragement to him, every hollow mouth crying out silently for vengeance.
These were his brothers, the outlaw told himself, his kinsmen in spirit. He would do what he could to see all their demands fulfilled—for if he did not, he would almost certainly join them.
The corridor ended in the beginnings of a circular stairwell, one narrow and smoothed by age. Hunching over, Kahless took the steep, uneven steps as quickly as he could.
“Where are you going?” asked Morath.
The outlaw stopped long enough to look at him. “You want Molor, don’t you?”
